


Never Let Me Go

by spicedpiano



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Activism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Canon Compliant, Drabble Collection, F/F, First Meetings, M/M, Marriage, Musicians, Picnics, Sex on Furniture, Violins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-20 17:39:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicedpiano/pseuds/spicedpiano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short fiction.</p><p>1.  Charles is a concert violinist.  Erik is a luthier whose clientele is quite, quite exclusive.<br/>2.  Starry Sky AU.  Erik's romantic planetside picnic does not go as planned.<br/>3.  Mystique meets her soulmate at a book-burning, at the turn of the twentieth century.</p><p>To be continued.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sérénade

**Author's Note:**

> Charles is a concert violinist. Erik is a luthier whose clientele is quite, quite exclusive.
> 
> Written for **Kannibal** 's drabble prompt, which can be found [here.](http://spicedpiano.tumblr.com/post/37049420761/charles-as-a-renowned-handful-of-students-only-maestro)

It took Erik eight months, twenty-three days, and six hours to finish the violin. He used the finest Brazilian tonewood - he always does, but for Charles he chose the warmest pieces, those which would produce the purest sound. Sanding them down took a month and a half alone, but Erik can afford the time. He only makes three or four instruments a year, after all. 

Erik has crafted every one of Charles’s instruments since Charles first showed up in his workshop fifteen years ago. He was a student, then. They both were, Erik an apprentice and Charles studying at the Conservatory down the street. He’d wanted a new instrument for his senior recital, and he was rich enough to afford to have one made custom. Erik’s master put the task to him and then took all of the credit. Charles came by the shop again a month later, still wearing his performance tuxedo with his instrument case slung over one shoulder, flush-cheeked and bright-eyed. The best he’d ever played, Charles had said. The violin felt like it was a part of him, solid and alive. 

When Erik offered to convey his gratitude on to the master luthier, Charles had simply smiled, shaking his head. ”The man to thank is right in front of me.”

It’s been years, now. Charles has played hundreds of performances since then - dozens of violins coming to life under Charles’s bow. When Charles left for a position at the Boston Symphony Orchestra - second chair, at his age; it was unheard of - Erik followed, opening his own luthier shop two blocks down. A year later was the first time they had sex, tangled together on top of Erik’s work table, sawdust glittering in Charles’s hair and his legs wrapped round Erik’s waist, clinging to him as if afraid of ever letting go.

Five years later they got married, in a small ceremony attended only by Erik’s mother, Charles’s sister, and a justice of the peace. Erik’s fairly sure that half the orchestra has no idea Charles is even married, since he pockets his wedding ring for rehearsals and recitals. Erik doesn’t mind. Even when he’s in the audience, ten rows back, he imagines he can feel Charles’s skin - that Charles, holding Erik’s violin, is holding Erik as well - and when the last note is played Charles always looks out past the stagelights and meets Erik’s gaze, smiling just for him.

From time to time, Charles tries to convince Erik to build a violin for a particularly promising student of his. Erik always refuses and then he waits out the silence, expecting Charles to get angry with him. Charles never does. At least, never about that.

Charles’s rehearsal is done at six, and he’s coming in the front door of Erik’s shop ten minutes later, bundled up in scarf and greatcoat, a knit hat pulled down low over his ears. 

“Hey,” he says, leaning in to let Erik kiss him - first on the mouth, and then the small bruise at Charles’s jaw, a permanent mark where the chinrest presses against Charles’s neck, worn after years of practice. ”How was your - _oh._ ”

And that’s when Erik knows Charles has seen it - the finished violin sitting out on his worktable, settled carefully into its velvet-lined case. Charles didn’t request a new bow but Erik made him one anyway. It’s there, too, hairs already drawn taut for Charles to test its sound.

“You finished it.” Charles’s hands are still wrapped around the lapels of Erik’s collar even if his gaze hasn’t left the instrument.

Erik nods, pressing a smile to Charles’s temple. ”Why don’t you try it out?”

Charles lets out a soft breath and releases Erik’s shirt, stepping slowly toward the table. He touches the violin like he would a lover, fingers skimming the body, thumb caressing a wire string. It’s several minutes before he actually picks it up, settling it against his neck and lifting the bow.

Erik closes his eyes and lets the sound of Charles’s music wash over him, flooding through his veins and seeping into the marrow of his bones. The vibrato that makes his heart skip a beat. 

Somehow, no matter the composer, no matter the piece, everything Charles plays is a love song.


	2. The Heart is Hard to Translate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starry Sky AU. Erik's romantic planetside picnic does not go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for **Baehj2915** 's prompt, which can be found [here](http://spicedpiano.tumblr.com/post/36467841503/poorly-planned-outdoor-romantic-dinner-failure).
> 
> This ficlet is written within the universe of [The Starry Sky and the Deep Sea](http://archiveofourown.org/works/490450/chapters/856103)

“It’s the supernova in the H-378 quadrant,” Erik says, as Charles clenches his jaw tight, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. ”It must have brought wi - winter early, this year.”

Planet Krafla - which, Erik had explained to Charles as he typed in the coordinates that morning, was supposed to be displaying its famously colorful foliage this time of year - is covered in ice. Even the trees are sunk down under feet of frost and snow; only a few straggly black branches are visible above the blank whiteness of the landscape.

Now, the temperature is easily forty below zero. Charles’s eyelashes are frozen together, tiny icicles cracking against his cheek every time he blinks. 

“Damn it,” Erik says. His fingers, grasping the handle of the picnic basket, are starting to turn blue-grey. ”I wanted to — Well. It doesn’t matter now, I suppose.”

Charles’s arms are violently shaking but he forces himself to lift his hand anyway and press it to Erik’s shoulder. His bones feel as if they are made of steel, and it _hurts,_ but he makes himself squeeze anyway. Twice.

Erik glances toward him - and Charles has never seen the Commander looking quite like this, cheeks flushed and his eyes glassy-bright. 

On second thought, he doesn’t feel all that cold anymore.

“Come on,” Erik says. A muscle in his jaw is twitching, probably from the effort of trying not to shiver. ”You look …. We need to get you inside.”

They eat their picnic on the catwalk instead, after Erik’s given the orders to take off again, their legs dangling over past the railing, sharing cheese and bread, gazing out at the sprawling galaxy of stars.


	3. Burning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mystique meets her soulmate at a book-burning, at the turn of the twentieth century.
> 
> Slight AU of comics canon, in which people knew about mutants much earlier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for **Pragmatichominid** 's prompt on tumblr, which can be found [here](http://spicedpiano.tumblr.com/post/36465794651/something-with-raven-azazel-or-alternatively).

They were burning books, the first time Mystique saw her.

It was the first day of the first year of the twentieth century, in Austria. The books catalogued the first scientific explorations of mutants, the first psychological evaluations of _homo superior._ Their conclusions were irrelevant. Wiping out mutantkind meant wiping out any evidence they ever existed. See no evil, speak no evil - **read** no evil. 

Irene was there, on the other side of the blaze, her skin flickering gold in the flame-light. She had a gauzy shawl wrapped around her shoulders, and Mystique remembers being worried that a spark might catch on the breeze and ignite the chiffon. The woman would burn before anyone could stop it. 

The fire danced in its reflection off the woman’s dark glasses, and Mystique viciously hoped she did burn. Let them all burn in the pyre they’d built.

The woman raised a hand and pointed toward Mystique, then crooked her finger, once. _Come._

To this day, Mystique is not sure why she obeyed. Perhaps it was her anger, clouding her judgment. Or just the intoxication of the bonfire smoldering in her veins. The reason doesn’t matter. The fact is, she went.

When she was close, an arm’s length away, the woman drew off her dark glasses. Beneath, her eyes were pale and clouded, milky like marbles.

“It’s you,” she said. Her voice shook, but only slightly. Mystique felt something strange, the odd gravity of deja vu, shuddering down her spine. 

Irene reached out and touched Mystique’s bland white wrist with the tips of her fingers. Mystique’s heart skipped a beat and her skin - _shifted,_ if only for a second, beneath Irene’s touch. A ripple of blue and rough scales, gone in an instant, but there.

“It’s you,” Irene said again. ”My love - I have waited for you, for so long. I knew you would come. I knew it must be today.”

She closed her fingers around Mystique’s arm and leaned forward, her brow pressed against Mystique’s shoulder. Her hair was the color of saffron, gone dark in the evening light. For a moment they simply stood there, one of Mystique’s hands hovering tentatively over Irene’s elbow. She did not know this woman; she did not know her intentions.

“I’m sorry,” Mystique said. ”Is there something I can do for you?”

“Yes.” Irene drew back at last, clasping both hands before her. She was smiling. Mystique had never seen a more beautiful smile in all her life. ”Raven Darkholme, isn’t it? I have something that I want you to read.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Sérénade (the Snapshot Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1600343) by [misura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura)




End file.
